The Secrets of John Hamish Watson
by Neko9406
Summary: John Watson has a secret he never wants found out. This secret is the reason he escaped to Afghanistan. This secret is the reason he never feared danger, instead thriving in it. John Watson was born the illegitimate heir to a Russian Mafia. Now someone has finally found him. Can he allow himself to trust Sherlock? Or is he going to have to disappear once again?
1. Chapter 1

The Secrets of John Hamish Watson

She watched them in silence, the darkness of night like a cloak billowing away from her. He knew she was there, he had seen her standing under the broken streetlamp two hours ago. He stared at her face, noting that it was a blank mask, the only thing he could see were the electric blue of her eyes. Her hands were in her coat pockets, the coat black and, from what he could see, well worn, given the slight fraying at the edges, the almost invisible stains merging with the black material, wool perhaps, he needed a closer examination. He couldn't make out her hair; the coat's hood was up. The only thing that gave her away was the slight shape of her body, the way she stood, and the slight bulge of breasts in her chest area.

"Sherlock," John called from the kitchen, he was making dinner "could you give me a hand over here?"

Sherlock didn't hear John at all, he was busy trying to figure out why this woman was standing and staring at his window.

"She knows I see her but she doesn't try to hide or walk away." Sherlock muttered to himself, "Why? What is so important that she is just standing there? To see me, perhaps? No, if she had wanted to see me then she would have left or come in already. To spy? My enemies would not use so poor a spy, unless they had a hidden message in this? But what?"

"Sherlock!" John called out in exasperation, "Would you please set the table! The food is almost done!"

John looked into the living room, noticing that Sherlock was still at the window that over looked the street.

"Sherlock?" John stepped into the room, his plain apron spattered with the internal organs of tomatoes, "What is it? What are you looking at?" He peered around Sherlock's unmoving body.

The woman stood still for two seconds longer before abruptly turning away from the streetlight and making her way down the sidewalk.

"She was there to see you…" Sherlock trailed off, his mind racing to catch the implications. He had noticed that John's body had tensed, his eyes had narrowed, and his mouth had curved down into a frown, at the quick glimpse he had of the strange woman a split second before the man relaxed.

"Strange that," John casually remarked, he turned his back on the window and returned to the kitchen.

Sherlock watched John walk away, noticing that he was limping slightly. Whoever the woman was, or is for that matter, John obviously knew her. He knew her and had been upset with her appearance. Why?

"Did you say something?" John called from the kitchen, "Supper's going to be ready in two minutes, and would you please set the table!"

Sherlock moved to comply.

_Why? What? Who? When? Why? Why? Why?_ Sherlock's mind worked overtime as he tried to piece together this little puzzle. He came up with several theories (the woman was Harry, John's sister, but why didn't she come in? Prank? The woman was one of John's exes, but why the mask? Stalker? But she hadn't hidden when he stood at the window), yet none of them felt right.

The only things he really did know are the facts. _1) a masked woman who took care to hide who she is, the upturned hood, hands in pocket, standing as still as possible, was 2) standing near a broken streetlamp watching his flat but 3) had not left when she noticed someone there, clearly she had not found him or his knowing she was there a matter of consequence, however 4) she had not wanted John to know she was there because 5) John obviously knew her even with the disguise on, given the way he had stiffened and reacted negatively. Why? Why did he react negatively? Why did she not want him to know but not care that Sherlock saw her? Does she really not want John to see her? Maybe she did want John to know but not actually see her? Again, why? What was the connection between John and this woman? Negative, obviously, but why?_

"Are you going to eat or stare at the food?" John asked, already digging into the spaghetti and meatballs he had made.

"As much as I appreciate your culinary art I do not want to be the practice dummy for the next meal you cook for your current girlfriend. Who is it this time anyways? The librarian from the city library? The patisserie from New Body? Or is it the college professor with the yapping dog?" Sherlock poked at the dish, it looked decent enough, the smell could be considered appetizing and the little sprig of parsley contrasted pleasantly with the red of the sauce.

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's deductions, "I'll have you know that it is the college professor, Sarah Kingly. She teaches-"

"Boring." Sherlock interrupted, he set aside the fork, pushed away the plate, folded his hands together, and studied John.

John pretended not to notice. He kept right on eating, noting that he might want to consider adding a little more salt in the sauce next time.

"Who was the woman at the streetlamp?" Sherlock suddenly asked.

"Don't know. Some weirdo I guess." John replied taking another bite of pasta, "And how did you know it was a woman?" He didn't look at Sherlock.

_He's lying. Not looking at me means that he knows but doesn't want me to know…why?_ Sherlock felt something tremble in his chest. With a slight shock he realized he felt hurt. This was the first time that John had actually refused him something completely. Certainly there had been times where John would refuse to do/say something the Sherlock needed him to do but always John had made no real indication that he would shut Sherlock out. This simple refusal to meet Sherlock's eyes was a shut-out.

"You're not going to eat?" John used his fork to point at Sherlock's cooling food.

Sherlock did not reply, he simply rose from the table walked back to the window and pulled out his violin. John watched Sherlock's retreating back before he set aside his own fork, the pasta on his plate half eaten. He no longer felt hungry. With a sigh, John got up from the table, wrapped up the leftovers, and did the dishes. All the while Sherlock played on his violin.

_Why?_ Was the same question that resonated through both their minds as the night continued to take over their part of the world.


	2. Chapter 2

The Secrets of John Hamish

John knew he was dreaming. He even knew what would happen in this dream. He knew and dreaded it. He hated this dream, dreaded it, despised it, and yet felt so nostalgic.

The dream always started out the same. His mother, an average woman whose only remarkable trait was her kindness, was holding his hand and they were in a beautiful rose garden during the spring. His half-sister, Harry, was sitting on the bench talking to an elderly man. The elderly man's hair was very silver, so silver that the sun's reflection formed a sort of halo around his head. He sat straight as one hand rested on a cane and the other patted Harry's head. The two would notice them, look at them, smile, and wave happily. A butterfly would land on the old man's knee and John would wobble over there as quickly as he could on his chubby five year old legs.

A sudden noise would cause the butterfly to take off and he would hear Harry's scream and the elderly old man's shout of rage. His eyes would be following the butterfly, watching the blues, blacks, and whites of its wings as the fragile insect took for the sky. Only to be forced back to the ground by a splash of red as another noise echoed.

He would then look around himself and see his mother laying face down in the grass and the elderly old man, his silver hair slowly being dyed pink, using the cane to block the swinging arm of a big man. Harry was beside their mother, shaking her and weeping. John wouldn't move, at this time he was too young to understand why his mother wasn't moving nor why Harry was screaming so loudly. He would only stand there as the elderly man called for help and fall to the ground with a hole through his eye.

He would only watch as a group of men swarmed into the garden, killed the big man, and started to try to revive his mother and grandfather. One of the men would sink to his knees beside both and weep harshly into his hands. Harry would be by this man's side as she used her fists to pound at his shoulder while she screamed for him to return her Mama and Grandda right now. And all John could do was watch as his mother and maternal grandfather were lifted by the group and taken somewhere.

The fallen man would cradle Harry to him only to be shoved away. Harry would then look at John and silently turn away before taking off into the garden. The man would also look at him before the man slowly rose and went over to him. John would then raise his arms to the man and ask him "Why was Mama lying on the ground, Da? Why did Granda fall down?" And all he would get for an answer was a shaking of the head before his father started to weep into his shoulder.

John slowly opened his eyes and blinked away the tears. He didn't need to look at the clock to know it was only 4 in the morning. He also didn't need to ask himself why he, after 5 years 9 months and 27 days, would dream about the day he went from John Hamish Watson to John Dominick Gorbunov the illegitimate son of a Russian Boss.

"Damn you, Alyona." He weakly cursed as a few tears slid down his cheek, "Why did you have to show up now?!" John closed his eyes and wept himself to sleep.

Across the city Alyona Deniken was polishing her gun. The blank mask she had worn the night before looked up toward the Heavens. Her electric blue eyes were cold as she looked into the webcam.

"Yes Boss. Я нашел молодой мастер."


End file.
